Holy Innocents
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: High school!AU: Sam and Dean attend the catholic Holy Innocents High. This school year isn't going as calmly as they hoped for one reason or another. M for later chapters. Dean/Castiel, Sam/Ruby, Sam/Lucifer, and other various pairs.
1. The Arrival

The Impala rolled up to Holy Innocents High school, engine purring as the wheels slowed down. The brisk autumn air blew through the decorative oak trees, leaves of all colours rustling in the chilled breeze. Bloated smoked clouds loaded above the roof of the building, a light mist fogging the view of the clock atop the administrative tower.

Bobby told Sam and Dean that the new school they were going to was fancy (the moment he mentioned uniforms they knew they were in for something snobbish), but they didn't expect to pull up to a manor, complete with educational serfs tied to their classrooms and a rumoured nasty lord in charge of it all.

"_It's the best school in the area,"_ Bobby told them when explaining their new place of enrolment, "_Should cost a fortune but you two idjits are lucky the dean owed me_," He grumbled whenever bringing up the Headmaster, usually swearing under his breath before continuing, "_So don't screw up. I'm not all that crazy about sending off you two to Catholic school but unlike the other schools in the area they actually teach ya, believe it or not."_

The boys were as gung-ho about the idea as Bobby, never attending anything above a run-of-the-mill public school before. Dean complained about the uniforms as though wearing one would kill him. Sam just groaned about going somewhere where he and his brother would most certainly stand out (even though Bobby assured Sam that most of the kids could give less of a crap about their religion). Still, when morning came they collected their books, put on their uniforms (not as bad as Dean expected), and headed to the campus.

Dean kept his hands on the wheel, staring out at the small campus. He spotted a few other students, boys marching around and fake fighting, girls prancing and laughing in clusters, all usual high school stuff. Sam, from the passenger's seat, did the same, head pressed against the window.

"Dean," Sam half-yawned, glancing over at his older brother, "Are you ready?" Tired or not, Sam wanted to just face this first day so it could be over with. The sooner he was labelled and pushed aside as the 'new kid who skipped a grade' the better.

"Hmm?" Dean raised a brow, acknowledging Sam but keeping his eyes on some of the girls—presumably cheerleaders—practicing spinning jumps. He practically chained himself to the bed this morning, but seeing some of the options he had lightened his view of the whole straitlaced Catholic school gig. So far, Holy Innocents had one redeeming quality: giggling bubbly schoolgirls.

"Dean," Sam sighed, rubbing his worn green eyes, "Remember not to do anything that'll get us kicked out. These schools have a million rules." He had a feeling his cries lamented to deaf ears.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves a hand, leaning back in the driver's seat, half-listening. Dean and rules never got along, them made to be broken. And Dean Winchester, a proud senior so close to breaking free from the shackles of education, wasn't afraid of any punishment. Hey, he was just here for the ride. And he was going to make it as fun as he possibly could.

"I'm _serious_," Sam cautioned. Even though he was younger by two years, Sam still talked to Dean as if he was the older one. That was probably because Dean tended to act like a reckless child (who would throw a tantrum if anyone said that to his face).

Dean looked over at Sam, olive eyes giving him an exhausted glower, "Calm down, Sam. This is just like every other stupid school we've gone to. Same rules apply." Confidence was key, right? Dean confused confidence with cockiness sometimes, but after a good twenty three high schools in the past four years, he thought he had a pretty good handle on this.

"Yeah, but the Dean's apparently the King of Hell," The irony made Sam roll his eyes.

"Screw him," Dean said, "It's still just like all the other schools. Just with more... Religious crap and schoolgirls..." He smirked, "I don't think it'll be so bad," He stared at a flock in front of the administrative building with his mind somewhere else.

Sam knew that look. He knew exactly what was on Dean's mind, alright.

"Just because this is a Catholic school doesn't mean that girls are going to walk around like that stupid Britney Spears video," Sam rolled his eyes again.

"It was not stupid," Dean said. He hated to admit that he listened to anything remotely pop related (most of it was a bunch of pure white noise and utter trash), but she was hot…and had a nice voice, that too. A man on the road had _needs_, too and not ever night was filled with sleeping with pretty girls (but he could imagine they were).

"Well they're not going to burst into a song and give you a lap dance," Sam muttered. All his brother cared about at school—so it seemed to Sam—was girls, girls, and, oh yes, _girls_. Meanwhile, Sam sat on the academic side of the spectrum, avoiding romance in favour of getting scholarships and going for college. He just wanted to wrap things up, go to Stanford, then Harvard, become a lawyer, and have a nice family with 2.5 kids and a dog living in the suburbs in a house with a white picket fence. Was that too much to ask?

"How do you know?" Dean sneered, scrunching his face.

"Because I don't confuse reality with porn," Sam said as-a-matter-of-factly.

Dean shot him a glare as he switched the Impala into 'Park', her engine silencing.

"Either way, I bet this'll go like every other place," Dean opened the door, grabbing his pack as he slid out, "Just remember that if any of the kids pick on ya, I'll kick their asses." Even though Sam's growth sprout brought him up to the towering height of six foot four (several inches taller than Dean), Dean still treated Sam like the little mop haired munchkin always falling prey to the dangerous tough guy terrors of the classroom.

"I know," Sam nodded lazily, slinging his backpack over one arm as he climbed out of the car.

He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, waiting for his brother to lock his baby up. He gazed out at the campus, observing how all the sturdy oaks lined the concrete path to the elegant steps. He paid close attention to the size of the immense school, the administration in the centre and two wings branching out on either side for classrooms. He looked the place up before and knew about the fields in the back and the copse circling the school, interrupted by a brick wall that boxed the students in. It was high class—too high class for a small town to have, in his opinion—and he only hoped the kids wouldn't be snobby conceited rich brats. The last thing he needed was to get crap from arrogant little...

"Sammy," Dean called, motioning for Sam to follow. He already started down the carpet of stone, headed at a leisurely pace for the entrance.

Sam blinked, snapping out of his absorbing trance and scurrying after his brother, blazer flapping in the wind.

Dean wasn't hard to catch up to, but the iciest air still burned Sam's lungs. He slowed down at Dean's side, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes downcast. Occasionally he glanced around, checking if any people were looking at them.

Some were, some weren't.

"Don't call me, Sammy," Sam muttered, speaking so only Dean could hear.

"Lighten up," Dean said; loosening his school tie a bit more, "You're usually the nerd who's all 'Yay school'. And look at me; I'm wearing a damn monkey suit and I'm still in a better mood than you."

"That's because you're in some horny little heaven," Sam said, straightening up, "Which probably won't be much of one considering the restrictions."

"Did you see how high some of these chicks roll up their skirts?" Dean laughed, winking at a younger blonde ogling him from afar, "Bobby said people aren't as super Catholic as you'd expect. I bet half the girls don't really follow the whole celibacy and abstinence thing."

"And then there are people like you who aren't religious at all and lack morals," Sam said as the two walked up the steps.

"I have morals," Dean rolled his eyes, grumbling.

They pushed open the huge glass door, a burst of warm AC caressing them when they entered.

They were in a great hallway, the crossing ground between the east and west wings. Ahead of them was a stairwell, leading up to the second level where all the offices were located. More students flocked in there, sheltered from the Jack Frost's breath, zipping this way and that. A sign pointed in three directions, to the east, west, and north. The east arrow was labelled '_Sciences'_, the west '_Humanities'_, and north '_Administrative'_ to instruct newcomers like the Winchesters where was where.

"I guess we go that way," Dean pointed ahead with a half-smile.

He took long confident strides forward, bumping up the swagger and flipping on the cool. The Winchesters, for most of their lives, were routine new kids thanks to their father's travelling habits, so Dean knew _exactly_ how to walk and make a great impression, or at least one that would get people talking. It wasn't even about the _attention _as much as _acknowledgement, _if that made any sense. He wouldn't kick open a door and shout how the party didn't start until he walked in, but he would make a little effort to catch a few eyes.

Preferably those of pretty female classmates.

And Dean caught a glimpse of a few of them gendering over his way...

_CRASH_!

Well, when he was paying attention to where he was walking, he knew how to make a cool impression. He at least always made a _memorable_ one.

Dean stumbled, and heard a thump along with a wave of snickers behind him. _Smooth move... _He thought, then whipped around.

Another boy was bent over on the ground, positioned like a pup on all fours. His books were scattered in front of him, a few once pristine corners scuffed from bouncing on the hard floor. Dean focused more on the boy than the books, though, watching his shoulders shudder and hearing a faint groan under the dying laughter of other students. He was smaller, slender, and from the way his elbows quavered slightly, had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even the _uniform_ looked like it was dragging him down. The guy wasn't necessarily weak even; he was just that one kid always walking around, in a rush, trying to get by unnoticed.

And Dean single-handedly managed to ruin his day before it started by knocking him down. He might as well have just kicked a sick stray puppy.

"Shit," Dean muttered as the boy started collecting his textbooks, remaining gravely silent. Dean grabbed him by the forearm, shocking the boy as he scooped up his Theology textbook. He swayed a bit after Dean yanked him to his feet, eyes shut, hugging the books to his chest with hunched shoulders.

"Sorry, man," Sorry didn't sound good enough, and tasted sour on his tongue for some reason.

The boy glanced over at Dean, hushed moans locked in his throat, Adam's apple vibrating as an indication. His chocolate brown hair was a mess, but the sort of intentional disarray that few could pull off and still look neat and perfect. He must have been about Dean's age—the books in his arms told him they were in the same grade—but an odd solemnity shadowed his features, making him look weary, wiser, even a bit battered. But there was a striking beauty to him in that way, his bone structure elegant, face clean cut like one of Michelangelo's marble masterpieces.

Then he opened his eyes, a brilliant blue, deep as the ocean and bright as the sky. They were breath-taking, vivid, sparkling, _unique_. They looked almost too nice for a person (especially a _guy_) to have, more like a pair of the most divine jewels meant for display in a world renowned museum. The illuminated when they fell upon Dean's face, enthralled and intrigued by him. His stare was intense, penetrating at a profound level. He could see Dean—not the way other people did—scanning everything inside of him: his thoughts, his past, his interests, _his_ _existence_. Dean never saw someone with eyes like that, eyes that literally twinkled like stars, showed such interest, and gazed right into the soul.

"...Thank you," The boy softly said, unblinking. His voice was gravelly and smooth, like a bag of pebbles from the bottom of a creek. Dean liked it, the soothing undertone, the even tone, the gentle, fluid manner. But he still caught a few hints of strain, anxiousness, uneasiness that was well hidden from those who didn't pay the closest attention.

The question that crossed Dean's mind was why _was_ he paying such close attention?

In an instant, the blink of an eye, the blue-eyed boy vanished into the crowd, becoming the air and dispersing. Dean's hand felt empty, still curved, holding an invisible arm. His palm tingled, adjusting to the sudden disappearance of the lukewarm sleeve he not a few moments ago gripped tightly.

Or maybe it wasn't that tightly and Dean just zoned out and let the guy walk off.

Dean's eyes fluttered and scanned the crowd. No, there was no way that guy could've just..._poofed_. One minute there were those eyes, the next nothing. That didn't make sense; Dean had to see him move, right? But there wasn't a sign of him, the boy gone without a trace.

Though he was gone, his presence still lingered. A ghost lagged behind, occupying where the boy stood, giving off his fine scent—some fresh smelling soap that reminded Dean of nature and toothpaste mint—and presenting the illusion that he simply turned invisible. But, to Dean's dismay, the guy was gone, and now those eyes were engraved into Dean's brain.

They were so nice... But he only saw them for, what, ten seconds max? That couldn't have been over a minute of interaction (if he'd even call it that)! Why was he sticking out so much? Why did he feel like he should know—or get to know—the guy? They just crashed in passing, exchanging a couple words each before resuming their paths. God, he didn't even know this kid's name!

Still the impression _he made_...

And all Dean could think of were those _eyes_... Those stunning, marvellous, _ethereal_ eyes... Looking _right at him_... _glowing and captivating_...

"Good job," Sam strolled past Dean, fighting back a smirk and biting back laughter. He loved his brother and all, but every little sibling savoured the moments of humiliation self-inflicted by their elders.

Dean shook his head, snapping out of his trance-like state. He pushed the mysterious boy to the back of his mind and groaned, furrowing his brow before chasing after Sam, "I didn't see him!"

"Dude, I believe you," Sam chuckled. They started up the stairs, soles of their dress shoes clacking on the fine stone, "You don't pay attention, at least not where you're walking."

"That wasn't it," Dean scoffed.

"Dean, you were eyeing some girl's chest before colliding."

"Was not!" Was too, but that was irrelevant.

"Well, you certainly made your cool guy impression back there," Sam sniggered.

"Shut up." He shoved his hands in his pocket. His feet slammed the ground harder, shoving away and shrugging off the image of those eyes as best he could (_Why the hell do I keep thinking about them?)._

The boys approached a large circular desk, one belonging to the head secretary in charge of dealing with all the students and shipping them to whatever class or office they had to go to. The desk was cluttered with various papers and little statues of Mary, Jesus, and other idols. There were more forms of worship lying about than forms of academia.

Working avidly at the desk was a younger woman, likely just out of college. Around her neck was a shining silver crucifix, clearly one of the more devout members of the school. Her black hair was pulled back in a pony tail, her dark eyes set on the computer screen before her. She bit her lip as she typed, toffee fingers quivering over the dark keys, more from anxiety than the temperature. She scarcely noticed Sam and Dean walk up to the desk. Then, as though the Winchesters appeared as ghosts, she tore her face away from the screen and gave them a wide-eyed, somewhat startled look. She did not say a word, waiting for them to speak first.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances before looking back at the secretary.

"Hi," Sam broke the ice, eyes flickering to the name plate lost in the mess of figures and forms, "Ms. Fitzgerald."

The secretary blinked, expecting to hear more than just a simple hello. She seemed far too shy for her own good.

"Um..." Sam bit his lip, discomforted by the lack of reaction, "Can you tell us where the dean's office is...?"

"We're new," Dean added.

Ms. Fitzgerald's eyes fluttered, then darted back to the computer screen. She quickly typed in a few things, fingers gliding over the keys. Other than the drone of the children chattering a level down, all the brothers could hear were the harsh, precise clicks of the keyboard.

"Dean and Sam Winchester?" She asked quietly, voice just above a whisper.

"That's us," Dean flashed a smile.

"Go down the hall, all the way at the end, to your left," She muttered, gesturing to the corridor on her right, "He should be free..."

"Thanks," Dean winked. A look of alarm crossed the secretary's face, prompting her to glue her eyes back to the screen.

"Come on," Sam murmured, lightly bumping his brother's arm and walking towards the hall.

Dean followed, staying at his brother's side as they passed office after office, every name plate getting fancier. The first few offices just had dull gold plates, then the next few were shiny, and the ones after that had script instead of plain text. Finally, they arrived at the end of the hallway, the door on the left larger than the others. The nameplate on the side shimmered, the words "Dean's Office" written in delicate cursive. They were in the right place.

Sam turned the elegant golden handle, pushing the door open slowly. It slid smoothly across the mulberry carpet, opening wide so both boys could see in.

The office was a throne room, walls covered with fine paintings and beautiful tapestries. Smaller statues of fine marble were situated all around, each costing somewhere in the thousands by assumption. Dark velvet curtains draped over the wide windows, curvy designs sewn into the heavy fabric. At the head of the room was a large desk, ebony gossamer over the sturdy wood. A slim laptop sat in the centre of the desk, next to a dim lamp made to look like a candle and what appeared to be a bottle of wine and glass. On the student side of the desk were two chairs, both fairly plain compared to the rest of the room. And then, on the other side, was a lush armed chair, one of the nicest swivel chairs in all existence probably.

Seated in this chair was the dean of the school, the one and only overlord of the school. He was an older man, hairline high and ash hair thin. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, one more expected of someone seeing royalty than someone seeing students, which looked rather expensive. He had a hand on the lip of the crystal wine glass, likely thinking of a drink (even though it was half past eight and, by most standards, too early for liquor). His glassy eyes flickered to the door, staring at the newcomers with disdain.

"You should have knocked," He spat bitterly, accent as posh as his appearance.

Sam bit his lip, then looked to Dean. Dean shrugged; telling Sam not to worry about it, then took the first steps into the room. His brother followed suit.

"We're the new students," Sam said, "Bobby Singer called and-"

"Bobby Singer told me he was sending me two new _boys_," The dean interrupted, "Not a _moose _and a _monkey_."

Sam stiffened, taking a deep breath while Dean gritted his teeth. All Bobby's anguish surrounding this man was immediately justified.

The dean grasped the wine bottle, pulling off the cork with a pop and pouring himself a glass. He looked between the two, observing them briefly, trying to find as many flaws as he could in a single glance. Disgust, distaste, and scorn all crossed his face.

"You're not the cream of the crop," He rolled his eyes in displeasure, "But there is room for you..." He trailed off, either unable to recall their names or not caring enough to say them.

"Winchester," Dean curled his lip, a hound on defence, "Dean and Sam Winchester."

"So I was informed," He muttered, tone acrimonious, capping the wine bottle and gingerly grasping the glass, burgundy liquid swishing against the clear walls. He took a long sip, giving the boys a judgemental look as they watched.

"And you are?" Dean boldly enquired.

"Crowley," He said, glass pressed against his bottom lip, "But you may only call me by either Your Deanship, King of the Holy Innocents, Your Holiness, or simply Your Saviour."

Dean resisted the urge to snort. Was it humanly possible to be this _pompous_? This _highfalutin_? This _vainglorious_?

_Bet he's making up for lacking below the belt..._

"Well, it's nice to meet you," Sam piped, still gunning for a good first impression, "Your Dea—"

"Do not speak before I'm finished talking, giraffe" Crowley snapped, words dripping with irritation. He shot Sam an irate glower, heavily advising Sam not to open his mouth again.

Sam pressed his lips into a hard line, lowering his head a few degrees. Strict, sarcastic, and supercilious: that combination just screamed '_Fun year ahead!_' for them.

"Anyway," Crowley reached into a drawer, pulling out two slips of paper. He waved them in the air, letting the Winchesters see their names scrawled in the margin of the papers (Sam on one and Dean on the other respectively). Both paid close attention to Crowley, awaiting him to go on. But the headmaster took his time, knowing that prolonging his speech would further torture his two new prisoners. It was all the fun of running a dagger along someone's skin and cutting them without all the blood and physical evidence.

"Remember that you are in hear out of my _generosity_ and _love_ for Bobby Singer," He finally went on, sufficiently pleased with the growing umbrage on both Sam and Dean's faces, "Therefore I don't expect any trouble from either of you," He looked directly at Dean when he said that, gaze warning him that any infractions would receive the highest of punishments, "These are your schedules. I don't know if you are or aren't already familiar with the block system and I honestly don't care. Just know today is an A day and report to those classes. You should be capable of figuring it out, unless I was swindled into taking in two mentally deficient apes."

Dean tensed up. This unctuous attitude the dean had really aggravated him, his vitriolic and snobbish mannerism the sort of thing Dean found in the people he hated most in the world. And this scumbag was his dean. _Dean Douchebag was more like it. _Any more verbal abuse and that wine bottle was going right up His Assholiness'...

"You're late as well," Crowley mentioned, as though the thought just passed when he places the schedule slips on the edge of the desk, "I do not write passes so I'd hurry up and go before you start off your school year here with a tardy." He smiled, smug grin sickening for Sam and Dean to look at. This man clearly took joy in making his students miserable, just like a true tyrant.

Dean growled, snatching up the paper with his name on it. He crumpled the slip in his hands, clutching it tightly, hands involuntarily balling into tight fists. He gave Crowley dagger eyes, sharp and fierce, warning him that he was armed for attack whenever the opportunity opened. True, going against the head of the school wasn't the smartest idea, but this guy was _begging_ for it.

"Enjoy the rest of your day," Crowley said, tone sweet as cyanide.

He swallowed the words "Go to Hell!" thinking that he might as well save that for when Sam wasn't around to make his hostility more 'acceptable'. Instead, he just turned and headed for the door.

Sam, albeit reluctantly, took his paper, pointedly avoiding Crowley's gaze. He kept the paper flat, pressing his fingers tightly against the side of the sheet, warmth of his hand seeping through the fibres. His hand was firm, steady, showing none of the trepidation swirling in the pit of the boy's stomach. Unlike Dean, he didn't want to challenge the boss without playing through the first few levels.

"Oh, Jolly Green," Was he even allowed to call Sam that? Wasn't there a policy about harassing students? "I took the liberty of recruiting you for the tutoring programme here, meeting every Tuesday and every other Thursday," Sam glanced up in surprise, "We're in desperate need of more juniors, and you seem far more academically inclined than your brother. Let's hope the GPA you held at other schools reflects in practice, hmm?"

Sam hesitated, torn between taking that as a compliment or as the set up to some scheme. Crowley just met him, and maybe he was just picking favourites and putting Sam to the test? Maybe he had faith in him? No, no, no, not with that sickly smug smirk and glassy gawk.

He held his tongue, deciding not to spark any conversation that could and would be used against him in the Court of Crowley. He told himself that it was better to play it safe and avoid any signs of hostility, for the sake of his academic career if not his _life_ (with the power Crowley wielded, his dreams of Stanford could be shattered). Maybe after he settled in a bit he could get a little bolder, but not on _day one_.

Like his brother, Sam turned and went to the door.

Crowley resumed his early morning drinking, still taking a leisurely sip when the Winchesters walked out, door slamming shut behind them.

"That guy's a dick," Dean bluntly stated, clearly pissed off.

"They really weren't exaggerating with those rumours," Sam sighed, then looked at his schedule.

There were two columns, one labelled "Day: A" and the other "Day: B". Under the A category—the classes he had today—he had English first (more _now_), then American History, a short lunch break, Theology, and finally Computers. Each class, judging from the time arrangements to the side, was 90 minutes, and tomorrow he'd have an entirely different set of courses (Latin, Algebra, a free period, and then Chemistry), and then have to alternate between the class sets. Not impossible to comprehend, but a bit confusing if the days got mixed up.

"What kind of fucking schedule is this?" Dean stated, baffled by the block system. Why would he have Pre-Calculus, Biology and Psychology one day but then Government, English, PE, and Theology the next? Why were classes all so _long_? Why not trim them and have all the courses on the same day? Why couldn't that same day then repeat every day rather than juggling two different schedules? Why the hell would anyone use something as _stupid_ as block scheduling in high school?

"They're blocks," Sam had a feeling Dean wasn't too attentive during Crowley's rant (save for the more spiteful remarks), "We have four classes one day and three the other. Longer periods but more time for homework." There was some beneficial reason to the system, he supposed.

"So... Do I go to A or B?" Either Pre-Calculus or Government, neither of which he was thrilled about starting the day with.

"Well, today's an A day..." Sam said, "So it's whatever classes you have for A day."

The duo got back to the stairwell, the entrance hall deserted. Their descending footsteps echoed in the vacant chamber, the place a bit ghostly without other kids loafing around. Without people, the hall was overwhelmingly spacious.

"Pre-Calc," Dean read off, then pursed his lips. Maths wasn't really his thing, and doing equations in the morning sounded as nice as drinking gasoline.

They reached the bottom, the brothers standing alone. Dean glanced at the sign that guided them earlier, checking to see which wing fit his bill. Pre-Calculus fell best under Sciences, so east wing it was. Dean pointed where he was going as an alert to Sam.

"And I have English..." Sam assumed that they grouped linguistics with humanities, meaning he'd need to separate from his brother and wander westward, "So I guess I'll see you later."

"I'll hassle you down at lunch," Dean smiled, assuring his brother that within those thirty minutes of mingling, he would demand a status report. He then started for his class, shouting over his shoulder "See ya, Sammy!"

"Bye, Dean," Sam waved. He stalled a moment to see if his brother knew where he was going. Dean stopped, looked at his paper a second, and continued walking, going at a rather slow pace (what was the rush anyway?). He could find his way. With that, Sam scampered down the west wing corridor, embarking on the epic quest known as the first day of a new high school.

For both Winchesters the trails had only just begun.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yeah I don't know, I decided to "Hey what if everyone in SPN went to some Catholic school!" and then this happened. Surprise? It's more just a loose little silly high school thing aha I put it on LJ too. Got a bunch planned and I'm using it to let off steam and have some fun. **

**Thanks for reading! Leave a review! :D**


	2. Sam Makes a Friend

English was, naturally, the farthest room from the administration. Why would it be one of the first doors when he could walk to the very end of the wing? Why have an _easy_ first day?

He passed classroom after, constantly checking the numbers on the door in hopes they'd correspond to the one on his schedule. None of the numbers were high enough, rising gradual increase that unnerved Sam. If all the teachers were like the dean, then Sam was set up for a rough time. He'd probably even start the day with a REFERRAL or DETENTION, maybe BOTH. The possibilities made his stomach churn, Murphy's Law looming over whispering new delightful punishments to add to his unease.

Sam saw the end of the hall, an ornate window looking out at the woods telling him he hit a dead end. He glanced to the side, and knew that his room had to have been here.

Unless Crowley gave him a nonexistent room as a way of ruining his life.

Sam bolted down the hall, minding the time. He screeched to a halt before reaching (and slamming into) the glass. To his right was the entrance to the auditorium, huge set of glossy double doors outdoing the door across the way.

That one it faced was Sam's English class. Unlike all the other doors, this one had scratches, marks of weathering, and lacked a slick veneer. It was the single door that hadn't been replaced—even the janitor's closets had nicer ones—the pale tan singled out. Through the small window, Sam saw the class' back row, room oriented so he would enter from the back. Most everyone he could see had already taken his or her seat, meaning Sam was really late.

Hastily, grabbed the knob and turned it, pressing lightly against the door.

_SCREEEEEEEECH!_

The hinges cried as the door swung freely, that one shove enough to bring it banging against the wall. Sam cringed, the noises worse than nails on a chalkboard.

Of course, Sam's plan for a tactful, quiet entry was foiled, the door alerting everyone in class of his arrival. Most of the others whipped around in their chairs, their gazes shining spotlight on poor Sam.  
>Even though it was a small class—only about thirteen kids excluding Sam—their eyes burned him. He just for once wanted to not stick out like a sore thumb. He wanted to just slip in and go unnoticed.<p>

_But that's too much to ask, right?_

In the front of the room, leaning against an old office desk, was the man who appeared to be the professor. He looked in his thirties and in a perpetual state of dishevelment. Light brown hair sat in a mess atop his head, a fuzzy beard and growing moustache covering his jaw. A pair of thick black reading glasses balanced on the edge of his nose, crooked and subject to fall any second. He wore a threadbare sweater, his school jacket draped over the back of his chair. In his hands he held a textbook, probably explaining important material before Sam interrupted.

When he looked over, he met Sam with a shocked expression. However, his hazel eyes were warm, kind, and gave off a feeling of comfort. Already Sam knew he would be far more personable than his headmaster.

"And you must be the new student," The man said with a smirk. He reached behind him, fumbling around on his cluttered desk for a sheet of paper, barely keeping hold of the book. After nearly dropping the slightly crinkled sheet, he placed it over the pages of the book, "Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah... That's me..." Sam nodded, small surges of relief flowing through him as a few students turned away in disinterest.

"Well, Sam, I'm Professor Shurley, but that sounds too formal so Chuck is just fine," He nodded once, only for his glasses to slip off and land in the crease of the book, slapping against the paper.

"Alright... Chuck..." Calling a teacher by his first name felt odd. Usually teachers took pride in being the authoritarian leader of the classroom and rarely levelled himself to an equal of his pupils. The amiable repose felt alien, even stranger after encountering the greatly contrasting better-than-everyone Crowley.

"Well, you're late," Chuck looked at the clock, minute hand nearly on the twelve, "But it's your first day so I'll let it slide."

Sam let out an airy sigh, relaxing. Thank God for meeting an understanding teacher.

"Just take a seat in one of the free desks and grab a text book from underneath," He gestured to the pair of vacancies in the back row, giving Sam a choice of a spot by the window or a place next to an auburn haired boy, "Got it?"

Sam nodded, quietly making his way to the nearest chair, sitting next to the auburn haired boy. As Sam settled down, putting down his book bag and grabbing up his text, Chuck turned to his cluttered desk, groping through the mess for more papers while muttering minor swears beneath his breath.

"Uh..." Sam needed a page number. He looked over at the auburn haired boy, only to see that he had absolutely nothing on his desk.

However, the other heard Sam's small distress, looking over at him with a devil-may-care grin and a pair of chestnut brown eyes.

"Don't worry about it," He told Sam, "Chuck uses the book as a prop more than anything. You know, in case the suits snoop around."

Sam frowned at his book, flipping through short stories and poems. From the smell coming off the boy next to him, he was sitting in the stoner corner.

"I'm Andy," He added, leaning over to get Sam's attention, "Andy Gallagher."

Finally, Sam looked up, meeting the sociable gaze. He was flustered and wanted to get his work done, yes, but Sam loosened up looking into his eyes. Making friends was a good thing, especially if he was going to be here for the next couple of years. Hopefully the pot smoking wasn't a habitual occurrence.

"Nice to meet you," Sam said lowly.

Andy's grin widened.

"_Shhh_," The two boys in front of Andy snapped around, glaring at them with an intense odium.

The one in front of Andy was a boy with an angular face, nose flat and lips thin. His hair was grease black and his eyes dark pools of brown. Next to him and in front of Sam was a curly haired boy with sprouting facial hair. His glasses magnified his piercing glower. To Sam, they just looked like a couple of rogue geeks.

"Stop talking, Andy," The curly one said.

"Yeah," The other furrowed his brow, "We can't concentrate on our important research with you rambling."

"It's called being friendly," Andy rolled his eyes, "And writing down stupid crap about monsters isn't research."

"Well, well you just don't understand!" The curly one's voice cracked, "We're working to save people!"

"Yeah! And when we're out of school we're gonna travel around and fight ghosts and have our own hit TV show!" His friend added.

"We even have a theme song," The one in glasses counted to three on his fingers before they both burst into song, "_Ghost_! _Ghostfacers_!"

"Ed, Harry," Chuck shouted.

The boys whirled around jaws locked as they stated at a disapproving Chuck.

"Just..._no_," He shook his head, pursing his lips and making a slightly pained look. Sam had a feeling that this happened fairly often.

Snickers rolled over the class, causing Harry and Ed to slump in their seats.

Andy laughed loudest, his chuckles raised above the crowd. Sam laughed a bit too, but not nearly as loud. Normally, he was one of the people advocating against bullying, but these two acted like such irritable snots that he let it slide. There was an exception to every rule.

Harry and Ed both closed their notebooks—Star Trek stickers and homemade 'Ghostfacer' logos sloppily decorating the covers—and rose to their feet.

"Can we please go to our lockers?" Harry asked, "Ed and I forgot our homework."

Chuck glanced over and rolled his eyes, "Sure."

Ed and Harry, on that note, walked out of the class, giving Andy and Sam dirty looks as they closed the door behind them. After hearing the resounding slam, a few more bursts of giggles rippled through the room.

"Ignore them," Andy said to Sam, jabbing his thumb at the door, "They're the resident nerds gone mental. They're sort of the bottom of the food chain elitists."

"What? They fight ghosts and...?" Sam knew that was preposterous. There were no such things as ghosts!

"They think there are ghosts and monsters and crap and they 'save'," Overly animated air quotes, "us on a regular basis from the forces of darkness or something. I kinda zone out during most of their rants since I sound saner after a few bong loads than they do on a normal day."

"Ah..." Sam nodded. Alright, so he was befriending (We are becoming friends, right?) a stoner. Better than...those two wacko sci-fi dorks.

"You don't talk much do you?" Andy asked, leaning closer to Sam in curiosity.

"What? I'm just tired," The average response was to say he was just tired. He was tired but that wasn't the main reason he wasn't interacting, "A lot of crap has happened over the past few months."

"Alright, I getcha," Andy nodded firmly, "When'd ya get here, anyway? I didn't see anywhere for sale or anyone buying houses. This is kind of a small area."

"My brother Dean and I live with Bobby Singer," He watched Andy's expression change from confusion to enlightenment, as though that was an astounding revelation, "Our dads were friends and..." Was Sam really about to start pouring out pieces of his life story to this guy? "Well both our parents...passed away. Well, our dad, since our mom died when we were really young. Bobby's like our second father."

"Bobby's pretty cool," Andy shrugged, "Never met him, but that's what I heard. He's also a bit on the nutty side." Every thought that crosses Andy's mind just rolled right off his tongue.

Sam shut his eyes, rolled them behind the lids, then opened them to look back at Andy. That was the sneaky way to do it and not let people know they were being judged. But whenever he heard anyone say something less than positive about Bobby, it just irked him. He loved his real father, but he wasn't the 'perfect son' (that was all Dean). Bobby treated him like a _real_ _son_ and not a _soldier_, and for that Sam would always look to Bobby. People who thought he was crazy just didn't know the real him, the old car a bit rusted round the rims but still running like a charm. That was Bobby.

"I've known him all my life," Sam said, "We drove over to visit him sometimes but we never went through town before," He was fairly glad Bobby lived a few miles out, "My dad took my brother and I on the road a lot and I'm kinda used to being the new guy."

"Hi, new guy!" A peppy voice chirped.

Sam and Andy jumped in their seats, looking upon a girl sitting backwards in Ed's once empty chair. She was a smaller girl, petite and fragile. Flaxen hair fell over her shoulders, a few strands sticking up statically from her head. Her pale rose lips curved in an enormous ear-to-ear grin, top row of shiny white teeth exposed. The smile looked painful, creating deep creases and dimples in her creamy skin. She stated directly at Sam, blue-grey eyes bulging and bug-eyed. Intense infatuation burned in her pupils, the vehemence startling. She was cute enough, but whatever could-have-been attraction was extinguished by her overall creepiness, her aura warning Sam that she wasn't quite right.

"Oh God," Andy groaned. That wasn't a good sign.

"Your name is Sam, right?" She asked Sam, putting her arms on his book and scooting closer to him, bursting his personal space bubble, "I'm _Becky_."

"Hi..." Sam leaned back in his chair, pressing his spine to the hard plastic. Her vibes drove him further back, a horrible feeling of impending misfortune bubbling in his stomach.

"So how do you like the school? Meet anyone interesting? Need anyone to show you around? Have lunch with? Get class briefings from?" Becky basically quizzed him, but allowed no room between questions for Sam to even breathe.

"Uh..." Sam tried not to blink, afraid that when he reopened his eyes she'd be right up in his face.

"I got it covered, Becky," Andy simpered, "Don't scare him."

"I'm not scaring him!" Becky said, giggling as though Andy just told her a joke, "I'm saying hi!"

"Your 'hi's are a bit extreme, Beck," Andy noted.

"Uh... Can I have my desk back?" Becky's arms advanced to the very edge of his desk, fingers curled around the smooth drop-off. Her arms dominated the desk top, and her next conquest would be something along the lines of touching. What kind of touching Sam didn't know, and that's what made him even more uneasy about this girl.

"What? Oh yeah!" She propelled herself back, crossing her arms on the back of her seat, "So anyway, are you doing anything? Need any help?" Becky's tempo just kept increasing, talking at ninety-five miles an hour.

"I'm fine..." Aside from Becky he was fine, "Don't worry..." All his words came out flat, pique clear in his tone.

"Are you sure?" Becky was either stupidly oblivious or just chose to ignore Sam's aggravation.  
>"Becky, what are you doing back there?" Chuck happened to take a look in their direction.<p>

"As part of the Pep Squad I was just trying to see if Sam needed a little cheering up!" Becky beamed.

Chuck forced a shaky smile and nod. He knew she was over the top, "Well can you do that later? I need some help from you fi—"

"Oh, coming!" In a flash Becky was out of her seat and at the front of the room, ready to serve Chuck at a moment's notice with zest and obedience. Once again, Chuck saved the day.

Sam sighed, muscles relaxing. He didn't release how tense Becky made him until she was far, far away.

"Who was...?" He looked to Andy.

"Becky Rosen," Andy answered, "She's a sweet psycho who spends way too much time on Tumblr writing fanfiction and lives in her own little world. I think she likes you."

"Great..." Sam didn't need people to like him, at least not like that.

"Don't worry about her, she's really harmless," Andy glanced over at her, watching her wildly throw essays and assignments in the air, "Just... Hyperactive and slightly stalkerish sometimes..."

Sam gave him a 'Really?' look.

"...Okay she's like that all the time but she really isn't that bad," Andy said, "She's just a rabid fangirl with obsessive impulses. There are girls a lot crazier than that around here."

"Like what? A werewolf?" Sam mused.

"There are a couple of bitches that are just bad news," He said, "Like, they're demonic."

"Uh-huh," It sounded like an exaggeration. Until he actually met one of these 'bad news bitches', he wouldn't fully believe Andy.

"Oh, God, there's this one chick..." He snapped his fingers, fighting to remember, "Masters! Meg Masters. God she's a BITCH. But she's not as bad as her friend Lilith who acts like some sweet innocent little girl and is, like, the Devil's head bitch in charge. This Eve chick is a freaking MONSTER. And then there's Ruby, and, let me tell you, she is a twisted, manipulative demon who will spit acid on you and watch you burn."

"Mmhmm," Sam filed the names in his memory bank, a few tabs stating that these descriptions' accuracy was sketchy. His eyes flickered to the front of the room, catching a glimpse of Becky staring at Chuck's laptop screen grinning while the teacher heaved a heavy sigh. Today wasn't really Chuck's day either, it seemed.

"Okay, maybe I'll just collect your homework now..." Chuck mumbled, closing his text book and setting it down on the desk. He looked briefly at Becky, then away, and then back at her with an expression of alarm, "Becky what are you-?"

"I didn't know you were holding another chapter, Chuck!" She giggled, her eyes glued to the screen, reading eagerly, "And this one's about a faith heal—"

Before she could finish, Chuck slammed the laptop shut. His eyes bulged, about to roll out of their sockets.

"HEY!" Becky pouted, "I wasn't done!"

"I think that's enough, Becky," Chuck muttered, slightly jittery, "Just go back to your seat, I can take it from here."

"Alright," She sighed in a dramatic fashion before prancing off to her seat. A couple of times, she glanced behind her, pursing her lips and giving the laptop longing gazes. Whatever was on there certainly interested her a lot.

Chuck took another deep breath and ran his fingers through his mop of hair, scratching his head as he spun around on his heels to face the class. He watched the class reach into their backpacks, pulling out homework in various conditions (some clean and neat, others torn and split on, then some in between). He then began parading down the aisles, starting at the farther side of the room and plucking each paper off each individual's desk.

Andy cool leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the seat in front of him as Chuck, stack of flimsy loose-leaf papers gripped against his chest, circled around Sam to venture up the next row. He stopped at Andy.

"Again?" Chuck raised a brow.

Andy rolled his head back, looking up at his teacher with a sly smirk and a devilish glint to his eyes, "You won't count it against me. You know I did it. I just...forgot at home again."

Chuck stared into Andy's eyes a long moment, blinking several times, expression softening after each one. When Chuck sighed, Andy grinned victoriously.

"_Fine_," Chuck grumbled, walking on and collecting more homework, "But if you keep this up I'll start counting you off."

"I know Chuck," He looked to an amazed Sam and winked, "You say that every week."

Sam's eyes darted between a satisfied Andy and a disgruntled and grumbling Chuck. Chuck seemed like a laid-back guy, but usually teachers never let kids get away with not turning in homework.

Wasn't this school supposed to be ten times stricter than normal ones?

"Relax," Andy waved a hand dismissively, "It wasn't _that_ impressive."

"But you just got away with it," Sam did all his homework, even when he didn't have to. He was a regular overachiever; and, most of his life those who did less were punished severely. But here was Andy getting away with it scot-free, and from the sounds of it this wasn't anywhere near the first time.

"Sam, lemme tell you something," He raised his arms, popping a few bones in his back as he stretched like a cat, "This place runs by some weird rules. Most normal schools wouldn't understand the complicated politics of private religious academies. Now some people have connections and get away with things because of that. I actually don't because I'm just that great at influencing people," He smugly smiled to himself, proud of his gift, "But just keep in mind that things here are screwy as hell. Lots of favouritism and stuff. Chuck's pretty good about being cool with everyone no matter what, but other people are a lot more..." He twirled his finger, making invisible air circles until he snapped his fingers when the word hit him, "_Biased."_

"Oh really..." Sam gritted his teeth. _So much for having a school year free of judgemental pricks._

"Kinda depends in some situations. Some teachers are sexist; others just predestine you to their good or bad side. It's mostly money, the richer the more perks," Andy shrugged, "Like the Novak family is the school's main benefactor and all the kids get super special treatment. They're like a goddamn dynasty that can do anything even though Dean Dickhead hates every one of 'em."

"Just because they're rich?" _Of course_ just because they're rich! Rich kids can _buy_ the world and do with it _as they pleased_! Why else was Paris Hilton so famous? What was his point asking such a silly question?

"Duh," Andy rolled his eyes, "They're at the top because they're loaded. And, since you got in here by negotiation," He laughed when he saw confusion flash on Sam's face, "Mechanics don't make enough to send a kid to a place like this."

"My brother goes here too," Sam felt he had to add that.

"See what I mean?" Andy raised his arms high, then let them fall limply at his sides, "You're the commoners among the rich people," That made Sam feel so much more accepted, "And some of the richer brats think that they'll catch your poverty or something retarded like that."

"Are the Novaks like that?" Sam asked with a strained simper. From the sounds of it, this year would be the Winchesters versus the Holy Innocents, a fair two against somewhere around four hundred. A few kids like Andy might be on their side but from the sound of it, there were a lot of affluent hypercritical students and teachers who'd be out to get them. And, if this family was the richest, they were the logical ringleaders of the prosperous party.

"They aren't too bad. The Novaks are the least of your worries around here. Super religious, super academic, keep to themselves in a little tight-knit sibling unit," Andy spoke of them tenuously, Sam's worries fading as Andy went on, "There are only, like, two left of the fucking seven kids in the family. They basically fund the whole damn school but barely get involved in anything. Just avoid a kid named Lucifer and you should be _fine_."

"Lucifer?" Sam wondered what possessed a Catholic couple to name their child after _the Devil_.

"He's a little shit," Andy bluntly stated, "Crowley lets 'im get away with everything. He has a lot of issues. Kind of the black sheep of the family sorta thing I think," He shrugged, "But I wouldn't know since most of them are just...on their own planet."

"They sound...interesting..." Sam didn't really want to meet them, especially this Lucifer kid. They sounded like a bunch of Bible-thumping snobs, really.

"They're like unicorns," Andy snorted, shutting his eyes. Behind him, the door opened, Harry and Ed returning with their papers. Harry's face scrunched with disdain when he saw Andy's feet on his seat.

"Just pass up your papers," Chuck called to them from the front of the room, flipping through all the papers to account for everyone (plus Andy).

Ed slammed his paper on the desk of the girl in front of him, then took his seat. Harry, meanwhile, loomed over Andy, glaring down at him.

Andy slowly opened one eye, "Welcome back,"

"Can you give me back my seat?" Harry spat.

Andy groaned, but obeyed, moving his feet from the chair to the small spot for books underneath. Harry wasn't fully pleased, but he wasn't up for starting another fight. Andy wasn't worth it.

"Okay, I think that's everyone..." Chuck said, taking Ed and Harry's papers from the children at the head of the rows. He breezed through the papers one more time before tossing them on his desk, a few from the pile slipping into the sea. He clapped his hands together, glancing at the text book, and then the clock.

Sam, from the corner of his eye, spotted the time. Nine forty-six.

Most of class was _over_.

"Well..." Chuck bit his lip, then shrugged, "It's a Monday anyway..."

Becky's hand shot up, the girl about to spring from her seat as a dire question popped into her mind.

"Oooh! Oooh! Why don't you read us some of your new book!" She squealed, legs thrashing, desk shaking.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Becky..." Chuck murmured.

"Book?" Sam whispered.

"It's Chuck's side project," Andy replied, whisper considerable louder than a _real_ _whisper_, "Writes some crazy ass books about these guys Jared and Jensen and Misha," He didn't sound to interested in the storyline, "Lots of author guys use English teaching gigs as crap jobs till they're famous. Like that King guy."

Sam nodded, nothing further to say on the subject. At least it proved he had a teacher with a hobby. That was healthy...right?

"Well, I guess that's it," Chuck said, leaning against his desk, just as he had when Sam entered the class, "Maybe Wednesday we'll actually get around to reading some of..." He had to glance back at his book to remember just _what_ they were reading, "_The Scarlet Letter_..."

Most of the class began to pack up, a few students—including Andy—groaning at the thought of actually doing work. Sam really didn't mind, especially since that was among the books he read already (one of the main reasons Dean called him a nerd).

"So what class do ya have next?" Andy asked, already scooping his floppy backpack from the floor.

"Uh..." Sam reached into his pocket, feeling around for the folded slip. He pulled it out and opened it, looking at the course listed under English, "American History."

"What luck," Andy smiled, "That's where I'm going."

Sam wasn't sure exactly how lucky he was, but Andy was treating him nicely. Perhaps Sam was just being too hard on him. Maybe he was just too stressed and had to loosen up a little. Without dope, though, none of that.

"Is that class like this one?" Sam wanted to learn something today. Well, other than brief bits of 'school politics'.

"Nah, Professor Visyak'll bite your head off," Andy said, "She lectures a lot," Obviously they had different definitions of good classes, "Basically lots of zoning out and then a shitload of homework."

"Homework..." Hopefully the additional day he'd get to complete it wouldn't imply a double dosing, "Well it shouldn't be that bad."

"Alright," Chuck shouted, taking another gander at the clock, "It's kinda early, but class dismissed."

The room broke into murmurs and mutters, students rising and clustering to chit-chat with pals. The herd flocked to the door, filing out quickly to have time for stopping by lockers, going to the bathroom, meeting other friends, and getting to class in general. Sam and Andy were among the last to leave, Sam waving to Chuck—who had his hands a little full speaking with Becky—before walking into the hall. He and Andy merged with the forming crowd, flowing with the current, Andy leading the way. Sam stood tallest in the group, which didn't entirely calm him down.

"You're one of those super nerds, right?" Andy asked, rather brusquely.

"What?" Sam looked down at him.

"Never gotten below an A ever, studies a lot," Andy glanced up, "That kinda thing."

"I kind of had to," Sam admitted, "I used to move around a lot so I just... Never made many friends." Or at least none he'd stay in touch with. None he'd get to be with for more than a few months. None he could really bond with or at least not without then abandoning them.

"You're staying here though," Andy pointed out, "So you can probably think about more of a social life."

Sam rolled his eyes. He honestly didn't care about a social life, not all too much. Sure, one would be nice, but he didn't want Andy to toss him into some random circle of friends who'd kick him out. He could make his own friends after adjusting to the place a little!

"I guess you're my first friend here?" Sam asked flatly.

"Yeah," Andy nodded with a wide smile, "I am, aren't I?"

Even though he wasn't thrilled about it, Sam warmed up seeing Andy's smile. He kept judging him because of his initial impression, but Andy was a good guy. And he was a lot better than those weird Ghostfacers quacks. And that possibly psychotic Becky girl.

That awkward moment when a stoner is the best option.

"Ya need to go to your locker?" Andy asked, pointing to the open door adjacent to the bathrooms, "Cause that's our room."

Sam shook his head, and followed Andy into the classroom. This one was nicer than Chuck's, decorated with maps of both America and the rest of the world. He counted about five globes situated in the room somewhere or another, two colour-coded by country, one purely geographical, and the others a mix of the two. Beneath a portrait of George Washington was the teacher's desk, considerably neater than Chuck's. Everything was well-organised, from the pens to the stapler to the papers piled in perfect stacks.

Writing objectives on the whiteboard in blue Expo marker was an older woman, likely closer to Bobby's age than Chuck's. She wore a standard professor uniform, school emblem sewn into both her skirt and jacket. Her bleach blonde hair was fashioned in a tight bun, two thick strands hanging down along the side of her face. Her dull blue eyes were fixed on what she was writing, repeating some of her bullet points under her breath.

Sam slowly approached her while Andy slunk off to his seat in the third row, getting out his notebook as more of their classmates came in.

"Um..." Sam planned on saying something intelligent, but it didn't come out right.

She turned, looking up at Sam, "You must be Mr. Winchester."

"You know me?"_ No, she has no idea who you are because teachers never check their roaster updates..._

"Bobby's new boy," She said with a catlike smirk, "We go back, him and me."

"Right..." Sam nodded awkwardly.

"I'm Professor Visyak," She pointed to an ignored seat in the front corner, "That will be your new assigned seat. We're taking notes on the Revolution, I'm sure you can handle jumping in around Saratoga."

Sam just smiled, and walked to his seat. He saw Andy's face buried in his notebook, taking a ten o'clock snooze. Then he took out his notebook, brand new with a fresh retail store smell. He took out his pen, clicking it open and setting the ball-point to the paper.

The last of the class arrived and settled down, ready to adhere to the objectives of note-taking, note-taking, and last but not least note-taking with everyone's least favourite friend, Cornell notes.

The lecture began and Sam found contentment taking notes. Was it thrilling and exciting? Not really, but it was relaxing. Sometimes, having a mundane period of solid information dictation was nice.

He could reflect on his day a little, weighing all that happened so far on a scale of good and bad. Sure not much time had passed but a few nice things happened.

Aside from Ed and Harry, he's been getting along with people. Chuck seemed like a nice guy, though his helter-skelter teaching strategy may or may not be good in the long run. Andy was his friend, like it or not, and offered him something other than the company of his brother and books. Actually, other than the encounter with Crowley, the day was going pretty well.

_Let's just see how it lasts..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yup, Sam's meeting people. Crazy people but people. At least Andy's on his side (trying so very hard with characterising minor characters ugh)! Thanks for reading, guys, review if you want!**


	3. Dean Makes Enemies

Dean cruised down the hallway, taking his sweet time and looking around at the scenery, only occasionally checking the room numbers for his Pre-Calculus class. Skating in late wasn't a big deal, not to him. Plus he was definitely going to be late—that was guaranteed—so why not take a little time to admire the place he'd be doomed to spend the next few months in?

This was by far the prettiest pedagogy prison. No expense was spared on the decor, everything neat and fine, like a museum. Thick crème paint coated the walls, giving off a homely sense as opposed to the cold, confining chill of the typical tacky speckled school walls. The cathedral ceilings added a certain grandeur that made a simple walk from classroom to classroom feel like a stroll through Whitewall, lockers serving as the sole reminder that this was a place of education and not royalty. But, aside from a house of learning, the school was a religious one, that dominating large aspects of the interior design. Crosses adorned the empty spaces above doors and locker shelves, saints and angels forever at vigil from their ledges. Their vacant, always open eyes bothered Dean a bit, constantly under surveillance of stone guardians (who, for all he knew, had cameras installed in their eyes so Crowley could spy on his sinful students). But, elaborate and ornate as it was, the effort was appreciated.

At least the place looked nice.

He hummed the tune to Led Zeppelin's "Travelling Riverside Blues", sometimes murmuring bits of the lyrics under his breath. He crumpled the schedule in his hand, turning it into a ball while his thoughts wandered, leaving the realm of savants. He had other things to think about, better things.

School never worried Dean, not the way Sam got worked up about it. Dean was smart, he knew what was what, and remembered things he thought were necessary. Could he try harder? He could; but he was perfectly happy with his average of mid Bs, high Cs, and low As. The whole school system was pretty bad anyway, either dumbing kids down or discouraging learning all together. So investing much labour in such a pointless game of numbers and cramming sounded like a big waste for him.

That notion gifted Dean with the ability to actually relax in school, though. If it didn't matter that much, then why stress? The courses were bores, but he got out of the house and got to meet people. And out with other people, he steered away from the more personal, deep thoughts and had a chance to freely think about what he thought was important.

But, as a teenage boy, hormones greatly influenced what Dean just what these 'important' things were.

He thought about cars, and family, and other skills his father taught and drilled into his skull; but the best distraction from emotions was the sweet combination of girls and sex. It sounded contradictory, but it was a way to blow off steam and blow off the turmoil constantly bubbling beneath his skin. And he always made sure things didn't last, dodging commitment and the emotional baggage that came with it.

Emotions were bad, bad things in Dean's mind. They were meant to be pushed away and locked up. They only hurt and scarred, every pleasure they brought swiftly countered by a much greater pain.

A lot of the time, people would say to just fall back on family. That was getting harder and harder to do with the Winchester clan shrinking. A fire took Mary a long time ago, before Sam could remember and when Dean was very young. He accepted that his mother was gone, working after that to be his father's perfect son. And then, early on in the summer, an aneurism claimed John. That wound only just scabbed over, and if Bobby wasn't around, it'd still be bleeding. Bobby was the adopted father, the better father in a sense, but he in no way tried to be John Winchester's replacement. He always stood by to help, in the same line of work as John, and treated the boys like his own.

Thing was Bobby couldn't be around all the time. Bobby wasn't able to be around all the time, at least in the past. The boys went from town to town, living in motels, feeding off fast food and diner entrées. Not the best life, but it was the one they lived, the one John had them live. And in that life, that life with few rules, Dean only had one. That was the one rule he vowed to never break, and he still heard his father repeating it every night before he left for God knew where.

"_Protect your brother."_

Dean was trained to do just that, since Sam's infancy practically. He wasn't even that much older—maybe a six year age gap would've made more a difference—but that didn't stop him from going to taxing lengths for his brother. Hell, he practically raised Sam, substituting for John in his frequent leaves of absence. Sam was different, too. Sam had a future, a place outside John's shadow, outside where Dean stood shackled and trapped. Sam actually strove to escape the life his father fabricated, and that made him even more important than anything Dean could dream of. But Sam still had his weaknesses; Dean had to be his strong protector and keep him away from the bad crap out to destroy him, the stuff that got to him way back when.

Because Sam was of such prime importance, emotions became his mortal enemies. If he was the older brother, he had to be strong all the time, tough, immune to pain. Physical pain was a walk in the park, but emotional? That was another story for Dean.

A long time ago, he didn't think they were so bad. A long time ago, he liked them. And then, a long time ago, he fell in love. Cassie Robinson was her name, and their relationship was questionably the best time of Dean's life to date. He wouldn't count it, though, not the way it ended. The falling out and all the hurt that came after he left destroyed his view of the relationship, marking it with pain. He got over it, the fire of the freshman affair burnt out (even with a part of him that for a couple of years after wanted to rekindle the flames one day). And after getting singed like that, Dean became weary of the whole 'love and feelings' game. When on a winning streak, he was on top of the world. But it was a huge gamble, and it cost him a lot, charging him with guilt and regret, the loss warning him that making mistakes would just wind a man up lovelorn in the street gutter.

So, he geared his mind more towards sex. Sex was a stress reliever, and it didn't always require strings attached. Not the best way he could've handled it, but it worked for him. It still did.

Though there was one time, one time that scared him. He was a boy; she was a girl, neither of them thought much off it. Not until Dean wound up in his own little episode of 'Who's Your Daddy?' and faced the possibility of being a _father_. And that possibility just _scared the living shit out of him_. He was irresponsible, reckless, and by no stretch father material. The kid, Lisa told him, wasn't his, but he couldn't believe her. Not with the voice in the back of his head always whispering "_He's yours; that kid is yours_..."constantly. He could barely care for Sam, adding a chick and a baby to the equation would kill him. But even when he faced facts and convinced himself that Lisa was telling the truth and would be fine on her own (_A load of bull...)_, Dean still wished he could go back and do something. He just skipped out, ditched, like a true deadbeat, hauling a load of remorse and guilt everywhere he went.

After Lisa, there was no question about commitment. He pushed it off the table completely. None of that, none of that he couldn't handle. Bouncing around was fine, but relationships just sealed damnation and torment. He wasn't prepared to face that again. Dean, though he'd never admit it, was afraid of it. Just plain scared. But he refused to even let himself know that.

Instead he lied; he lied and said he was doing it for Sam's sake. He said that he just didn't want Sam to deal with him like that, in such a vulnerable state. Sam didn't need to see him like that—he couldn't see Dean Winchester, the toughest and bravest big brother ever, like that! Sam just wouldn't be able to handle it! That was it! Even though the one at maximum expense was Dean. Even though the only one who assuredly could not handle something like that was Dean. Even though the one who harboured those fears was Dean. _Even though it was all Dean_.

But none of that was on his mind, not at school, not in those halls, not today, not now. Dean only had one thing on his mind, one thing that he just couldn't shake, one thing that remained so prevalent in the sea of winding thoughts: _Those blue eyes_.

It annoyed him how he fixated on them, the image carved into the back of his eyelids. But they wouldn't leave his mind, they refused. And at the same time Dean almost didn't want them to.

They were just so pure, so clear, so damn _blue_. It was unusual, and to an extent, unnatural.

No, not unnatural.

_Supernatural_.

The more Dean thought about the eyes, the more he realised that he was thinking about some random guy he met for less than a minute. The more he realised he was thinking about some random guy, the more he wanted to forget about the eyes. And the more he wanted to forget them, the more he wanted to remember. And the more motions this cycle went through, the more annoyed Dean got.

_Fuck, I knew I should've gotten some coffee... It's too damn early for brains to function right..._

He looked up, spinning around in search of a clock. Through the window of a class, he saw the minute hand ticking past the one, a little over an hour to kill. Going to class would probably suck up some of that time, but he still didn't know where it was.

Then he remembered the wad of crumpled paper in his palm, the one with his entire day mapped out. Maybe looking at that would be a good idea instead of wandering aimlessly without stopping by class. But it was just stupid Pre-Calc.

Just thinking about blowing it off without effort to attend made Sam pop into his head, listening to his little brother lecture him on the merits of attending classes—no matter how worthless Dean thought them to be—and the myriad of reasons they had to be good kids.

Bobby worked hard to get them in there, that was reason number one. If all else failed, he had to do it for Bobby, who went out on a limb taking them in and sending them to the nicest school he could get the boys into. For Christ's sake the man was doing them a favour and acting more like a father than John ever did. At _least _do it for _Bobby_.

Then there was just doing it for Sam. Because Sam had a bunch of reasons that all, in Dean's head, translated to "Do it for me, okay?" because Sam was worth more. Sam could go on and be whatever he wanted to be and he didn't need Dean anchoring him down and dragging him to the bottom of the ocean, sticking him in the family business when he could go off and cure cancer or be the president or do whatever the hell he wanted. And if Dean got kicked out, Sam would go through turmoil over it and, being Sam, he'd probably try to go out and be with his brother in some academic sacrificial suicide. Because that was just what Winchesters did. But instead of having little Sammy put his future on the line, Dean would play schoolboy, graduate, and do something with his life from there.

But out of the blue came the eyes again, somehow sneaking onto Dean's list of reasons. They were just there. No explanation. Just a reason because they were.

Which made them even more _aggravating_.

Maybe numbers weren't so bad after all.

Dean uncrumpled the slip of paper, flattening out the deep creases with his thumb, searching for the room of his first class on 'A' days.

"Excuse me,"

Just as Dean placed his thumb next to the room number, he looked up, meeting the stern and unamused gaze of a teacher. Only his head was visible, the rest of his body hidden behind the door of his classroom. His brown eyes were sharp as knives, somewhat menacing, the kind you wouldn't want to see in a dark alley.

"What are you doing?" The man asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Just..." Dean's eyes wandered to the room number. Of all the rooms to match the one on his schedule, it just had to be that one, "...Going to your class, sir." A part of him wanted to kick the locker next to him and swear.

"You're Dean Winchester then?" The man opened the door, taking a step into the hall. He crossed his arms in displeasure, sturdy build warning Dean that-if this was the sort of school that allowed it-he could get tossed against the lockers and then flung down a flight of stairs. Nothing was more comforting than thinking your maths teacher was a possible psychopath.

"That's me," Dean said without fear. Serial killer on the side or not, Dean wasn't going to let a teacher shake him. He could boldly face anything and everything, the harder the better. Life was hard, Dean dealt with it. Angry teachers were the least of his concerns, nothing he couldn't handle.

"Well you're about a half an hour late, Mr. Winchester," He grunted.

"Had a chat with the dean," Dean pointed behind him, "If I didn't I probably would've been a whole lot later." He smiled, putting on his cool guy 'I love pissing teachers off' face.

It was working.

"Well then I'm so lucky," The man rolled his eyes, "Now get in here and take a seat."

"You don't have to shout," Dean shrugged, shoving his hands in his pocket and swaggering into the room, pretending he owned the place. This was going to be his new playground, filled with shiny new equipment and all sorts of fun times in store.

Dean could've sworn he walked into a morgue instead of a maths class (but they were the same thing, weren't they?). Everyone was lifeless, mechanically completing the worksheets on their desks. The soft sound of pencils etching in answers on paper filled the room, the occasional clicking of calculator buttons joining in when a group reached a particularly difficult equation. Just the sight of all the complex numbers and polynomial functions made Dean queasy.

Maths was not his strength.

"Go take a seat next to Ms. Wilson," The teacher pointed over to the only empty chair in the room, one in the second row closer to the window.

Dean nodded, sauntering to his seat. A few students briefly looked up at him as he passed, only able to spare minimal attention for fear of getting yelled at. He caught a glimpse of the board, reading "Professor Victor Henriksen" written on the otherwise bare whiteboard.

He sat down, slouching in his chair and taking out a single Batman pencil. While waiting for the worksheets, Dean amused himself with the infamous bendy pencil trick, both to entertain himself with immaturity and to annoy his professor.

_SLAP!_

Henriksen's black coffee hand pressed the small stack of work against the desk, his eyes piercing as they glowered at Dean.

Dean stopped, flipping the pencil around in a writing position with a grin.

"Not in my class," Henriksen said, taking a closer look at the utensil, "And try and get a better pencil, this is high school."

"But it's Batman," Dean pointed out. Batman was appropriate for all occasions.

Henriksen did not reply, turning around and shaking his head as he walked away to mindlessly slave away at some tedious paperwork.

Dean sighed, pulling over one of the worksheets and taking a look at some of the problems.

He didn't know how to do a single problem.

He glanced at the other few, equally out of luck in the know-how department. If he did learn this crap at his old school, he forgot all of it. If he didn't, well there was no way he was figuring it out on his own.

He was street smart, car parts smart, girls smart, but not maths smart.

His eyes wandered around the dull room, the room as austere as the teacher with no amusing motivational pictures for him to make jokes about. The clock told him that he still had another maybe forty minutes of class to get through, otherwise known as a sentence of forty years in the worst corner of hell. Asking for instruction was out of the question, sure that if he made another sound he'd be swiftly beheaded and mounted as an example. And he'd have to look productive or before he knew it there'd be a noose around his neck cutting off all oxygen.

Doing incorrect calculus it was!

Numbers were numbers. Maths was maths. Addition, subtraction, division, multiplication... That was all he really needed, right? So writing down random equations and reducing things that looked like they could be smaller would at very least get him through forty minutes. Getting out a calculator was far too laborious a task, so Dean stuck to crunching numbers carelessly to simplify equations.

His mind numbed, and as it did, he drifted again, returning to the floating stream of more pleasant thoughts he swam in on his walk.

The day wasn't fantastic by a long shot, but he was able to shrug it off as one of the littler things. School itself was a littler thing.

Though what he was doing was challenging (_Impossible_, he thought, _who even cares about stupid imaginary numbers?_), it was more of a bore of a chore than anything. He wasn't inclined to give two shits about this stuff when he got his diploma, so why worry if he didn't get it now?

Dean was used to a harder life, one with lots of moving and lots of problems. Sam didn't see as much of it as Dean did, the boy preoccupied with studies and activities classifiable as _normal_. No, Dean was John's boy. He was the perfect son, the model son, the super soldier he yearned for. Well, after some training he was the super soldier. John wasn't a cruel man, caring for both Sam and Dean dearly, but he showed a lot of tough love. He wanted Dean to follow his line of work, not just as a two-bit mechanic but as a miniature marine. Was John actually in the army? Didn't bother to ask, but he acted like it. He used to do something that required a lot of training similar. And Dean had to endure it because that was what his father wanted, and in turn that was what Dean wanted.

For a very long time, all Dean ever wanted in the whole wide world was for John Winchester to approve of him. Even though he had that approval for so long, he worked and worked to seal the deal. He wanted his father proud, and thus focused on and idolised John while Sam, as the pariah, retreated to the safety of his schoolbooks. Dean learned all sorts of skills, things about survival and hunting and scamming credit card companies (he still believed that would come in handy one day). Sure he'd go in sometimes with a couple of scratches.

Sure he'd give Sam the last can of soup and go hungry those evenings John didn't come back when the food was low. Sure he'd stay awake some nights with a shotgun to make sure no one busted into the motel room to hurt Sam. But no, that wasn't a problem.

That was just life.

And there were two ways of going about it, moping and dealing. He could complain and whine about how things sucked or he could keep his mouth shut and press on. That choice separated the babies from the men. And Dean sure as hell wasn't a baby.

No, he just shut up and took it like a man.

Even if it hurt. Even if it burned. Even if it made him want to break down because maybe he wasn't cut out for it.

He just had to keep going.

No matter what.

"Winchester," No 'Mister'_, serious business._

Dean jumped, head snapping up as he blinked out of his daze. Henriksen stood over him, sinking to an even lower level of displeasure, proving that it was possible to look homicidal over a maths problem.

"These are due by the end of the period," He pointed to Dean's paper, right where the mathematics ended and the poorly drawn Godzilla invading Tokyo began, "This isn't what'll get you a passing grade."

Dean stared at the doodles, "Just a warm up."

Professor Henriksen scorned, then disappeared, inspecting other children's' worksheets for flaws.

_What crawled up your ass and died, teach?_ Dean wondered as he erased his tiny masterpiece.

He dusted off the eraser shavings, neon yellow nub barely above the metal piece, periods of usefulness numbered.

(5_x+6) _ − 4_x_² + 7_x_ – 8

_Well fuck that..._

He took a look back at the clock, noting the fifteen minutes left in the period.

Fifteen minutes or death by Pre-Calculus.

On day fucking one.

With the power of "speed-bullshitting", he whizzed through the problems. Sometimes he'd pause and do a few simple functions, fooling Henriksen into thinking that he was actually wasting brain cells on finding the domain and range of the functions, but most of it was pure guessing. He knew enough about the problem to make it look somewhat not half-assed (_the exponent is 5 so there should be 5 answers, sum of squares can't factor, blah blah blah_), and that was all he was going for.

He on a roll, too, actually knew the answers to a few of the problems. And, even more thankfully, those pesky eyes hadn't infiltrated his thoughts since he walked into class.

...or at least not until the last few minutes when he saw the girl next to him close her bright blue notebook.

It was a boring blue, too dark to be like the eyes. But still, that imperfect colour reminded him of that scintillating one. So bright, so deep, so dazzling.

"God..." Dean muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead with his free-hand. The other one ground the graphite deeper into the paper, nearly tearing it.

"Mr. Winchester," Henriksen looked his way, "Are you alright?"

"Peachy," He murmured, stealing another glimpse of the clock.

Ten o'clock never looked so glorious.

"Well, pass your papers up," Henriksen said, "Your homework is to complete what the syllabus says. If you don't have one, then look it up," He looked at Dean when he said that, eyes advising him to heed his words, "Class dismissed."

Papers flooded to the front of the class, everyone in a rush to leave and head to next period's class. Some kids left in a rush while others, still drowsy and torpid, shuffled out at a far slower pace.

The girl behind Dean had to whack him with the papers so he'd take them, shooting from her seat when the responsibility of passing up disappeared. Dean put his papers under the rest of the stack and gave the pile to the waiting hand in front of him. He then slipped his trusty pencil into his bag, slung it over his back, and started for the door. He and Henriksen exchanged a few glares of mutual irritation before Dean went out the door.

He fished the schedule out of his pocket, checking what was next on the line-up.

Biology.

Yet another class Dean could live without taking.

Regardless, he followed the flock. The slip hid in his sleeve, there for when he needed to refresh his memory, but concealed others' view to avoid sticking out as the clueless new kid. He waved to some people, traded a few "Hi"s and "Hey"s, and found his classroom.

The first thing he saw wasn't the teacher; it was the girl in the front row, the seat next to her at the two-person lab table free. Perhaps he would have a little luck today.

Her hazel eyes flickered to Dean when he leaned against her desk, pen pausing in the middle of writing a header. Her ebony hair shined like a raven's feathers in the light. She wore all black, but not enough to be considered a 'Goth' or 'Emo' chick on sight.

"That seat taken?" Dean asked, nodding his head towards the spot at her side. He flashed a smile, to which the girl returned.

"Dean," The voice of an older man called from behind. Dean turned around, only to see a slick but sleazy looking professor standing over him, silver comb over tipping Dean off that he was a scumbag (because what reasonable teacher has one of those?), "Dean Winchester."

"Uh..." From the corner of his eye, he saw a burly African-American boy take the seat next to the girl, "Yeah?"

"Uh, yeah, I've heard about you," The teacher nodded his head, something amiss about his tone of voice, "This is going to be a fun year."

"Right..." Somehow Dean had a feeling he wouldn't be the one having the fun, "Professor...?"

"Alastair," That name was going on the 'people to avoid when possible' list, "And your seat is right over there by Kristen," He gestured to a girl with lipstick a few shades too red and a copy of 'My Summer of Blood' in her hands.

Dean couldn't complain. At least he wasn't sitting next to a kid plotting out murder schemes (not that a girl reading a trashy vampiric romance was much better).

He unloaded a notebook and pencil from his bag, copying everyone else in the room, and then just waited.

He drummed the pencil on his notebook, mimicking Joey Kramer as everyone else arrived. He rocked on his stool, making a few faint squeaks of wood against linoleum. That earned him a glare from Alastair.

Dean stopped once he noticed. Messing with Gordon was one thing, but Dean felt like he should be a little more subtle with this one. Ease into annoyance; manipulate the situation, that sort of thing.

"Today," Alastair announced, "You are all going to work on some worksheets."

_Great, more damn busy work..._

"And, since we have a new student," He gestured to Dean as he grasped a thick stack of worksheets, "I'll go over the rules."

The class silenced, everyone looking at the man pacing in the front of the class.

"Don't talk," He smacked a few sheets on the first lab table, "Or you'll get a referral,"

_SLAM_!

"Don't do any other class work, or you'll get two,"

_SLAM_!

"Chewing gum,"

_SLAM_!

"Using electronics,"

_SLAM_!

"And eating or drinking anything is strictly prohibited,"

_SLAM_!

"Breaking these rules or talking back will earn you a trip to the dean's,"

_SLAM_!

"As well as detention with me."

_SLAM_!

He stared right into Dean's eyes, hand still on the worksheets he put on his table, "Understand?"

Dean locked his jaw; mentally jotting down that messing with this guy was probably a really really _really _bad idea. If anything, it would be _torture_. He could resist it, but starting a rebellion after ten minutes of class was asking for the rack. So, at least for today, he'd comply. Dean nodded.

Alastair smiled, lips curling in some demented pleasure that made Dean want to sock himself in the stomach, and then walked to his desk.

The rest of the period, Dean worked solidly, answering moronic questions about mitosis and meiosis without hearing a single peep from anyone.

The time just ticked by, just as the questions about what metaphase did and which prophase did what kept coming and repeated. He only half-concentrated, enough to make sure he wasn't doodling dinosaurs, but still giving his mind a little room to wander.

Then, he thought of the blue for one last time, too bored to be annoyed, simply admiring the vivid hue and luminous lustre. They calmed him somehow; they subdued whatever negativity swirled inside him. When he wasn't so caught up in how much he wanted to stop dwelling on them, Dean enjoyed their presence, yearning to stare into them just a little longer. He ignored the fact that he didn't know much about the owner other than his grade and physical appearance. He just got a chance to genuinely _relish _them.

Dean tucked the thought safely in the back of his mind, saving it for later, and continued mindlessly working.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! Leave a review! (Not much to say)**


	4. Lunch

Sam left the small service alcove of the cafeteria (or _'Student Union'_ as the school dubbed it for the sake of fanciness) with a tray of pre-packaged salad, a pile of watery corn, and a carton of milk. It wasn't the gourmet private school lunch portrayed on television, but Sam didn't expect that much from a school lunch. Private or public, school lunches were _supposed_ to be _crap_.

He stood just outside the exit, breathing in the fumes of toxic food and listening to the boisterous chatter of the entire student body. A few people glanced at him as they passed, some checking him out, others wondering if he was confused or lost. They never approached him, thankfully, Sam just flashing a few smiles before his gaze flickered back to the sea of seated students. He scanned over the clusters, hoping to find Dean seated in the mess.

He just _had _to be there _somewhere_.

Usually he stuck with Dean when lunchtime rolled around, or at least planned to.

There were a few times when he'd end up alone, Dean off somewhere doing something (usually a random cute girl) while he had the free period.

It never bothered Sam, eating alone, not entirely.

He wasn't _dependent _on Dean. He could do things himself. Besides, there were times when he actually had lunch with other people. Dean wasn't his staple, his sole stick of support; but he preferred Dean's company most of the time.

It wasn't that he couldn't branch out-Dean didn't do much in the area of pursuing stable friendships or relationships (perish the thought!)-it was that there wasn't a _need _to.

The Winchesters would stay in a town for a while, mill about in a chump school for a bit, and then just split without warning. When they left, they just never looked back, the place another pin on the map. Any friends made would be abandoned, no way to contact Sam and Dean or for Sam and Dean to contact them. When they packed up, there was never a trace left behind, just whatever memories people had of them that would, with time, fade. Years on the road made family the most important and solid thing either of the boys could have. And especially after recent events, all that was left was each other.

Thus, eating together was the natural default.

And on first days especially.

Dean was _definitely_ at school and in the lunch room-he heard his brother screaming at the cashier from the back of the line over the mechanics of ordering-he just had to _find_ Waldo in the crowd now. Sadly, Dean was dressed like everybody else, not some candy-cane outfit that made him stick out.

So, until he found him, Sam would need to awkwardly loiter by the exit and ignore the judgemental looks of other students.

He bit his lip, scanning over the bobbing heads of chatting classmates. Most people would assume someone that tall would be able to pick out someone in a cluster no problem but _no_, that was a myth.

Finally, way off in the back, he spotted Dean alone at a circular table, already munching away his lunch. Though far away, Sam could tell that his brother wasn't having as good a day as he was; just seeing his poorer than usual posture proved that. With that, he realised that he was actually having a fairly good day. Shockingly.

He wound around lunch tables, muttering "Excuse me" and "Sorry" whenever he so much as bumped something. Everywhere he stepped, it seemed, someone just had to step in front of him, and he was sure a few kids tried to trip him. It wasn't a shock to him, not the first time. He was tall, firm, and strong looking but he had the overall air of a dork, and the bangs somehow kept him looking babyish. That meant that for the upperclassmen or the students who just had nothing better to do, they could trip the giant newbie if they tried hard enough. But they all failed, Sam too experienced in the game to tumble at their spiteful feet, much to some of the pack's disdain.

While just about everyone else noticed Sam bumbling through the cramped paths between tables, Dean remained unaware of his brother's approach. He couldn't think of anything but how terrible the day was going.

Of all the first days he went through in his lifetime, this was by far the worst. Three hours of classes with two psychotic teachers made for a very unhappy Dean. He managed to make a scene over buying lunch (_The system's stupid!),_ get assaulted with homework, now has to eat the world's worst burger _ever_, and of course there was the boy he knocked into whose gaze still haunted him. He hadn't seen that kid since the incident but _those damn blue eyes_.

Slowly but surely, Holy Innocents was getting to him, the pretty architecture and schoolgirl uniforms just illusions that deceived outsiders into thinking this was a fine ground of education. Really it was just a high security prison, the worst of the worst, a regular Shutter Island.

_I better not be douchey DiCaprio..._

Was it June yet?

"Hey Dean," Sam slapped down his tray, taking a seat right next to Dean. He settled in the hard plastic chair, looking at Dean angrily munching away at his soggy cheeseburger from the corner of his eye.

He didn't reply at first, chewing like a cow on cud. Then, after a long moment, he swallowed. His expression twisted as he eyed up the bitten burger.

"This tastes like shit," Dean stated before immediately taking another bite. He was still hungry after all that. Food was food.

"What did you expect? A prime filet?" Sam rolled his eyes, prying open his salad package.

"Something that didn't taste like ass," Dean squinted, taking a good look at the brown meat, "I paid, like, three bucks for this!"

"I think you might've been charged extra for screaming at the cashier," Sam mused, picking up a fork and poking at a shrivelled tomato.

"How was I supposed to know about these stupid numbers," Dean grumbled, pausing to slurp up some milk. Apparently in order to order food, students had to enter 'PIN numbers' otherwise they'd be unable to purchase anything. Dean didn't know about that until he reached the front of the line, fought with the cashier, and then looked at his schedule where the code was written. A whole lot of random nonsense for one little meal, "This whole school is dumb."

"You say that about every school we go to," He rolled his eyes. If he had a nickel for every time Dean insulted school...

"Yeah, but this one's the worst!" And another dime for that...

"I don't know," Sam shrugged, "It's not so bad..." For once, that felt like a modest understatement.

"Not bad?" Dean echoed questioningly. He popped a tater tot into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open. He was too angry to use manners.

"Yeah, it's actually been fine," Obviously Dean wasn't having a good one, "Do you want to talk about it or something?" Sam asked, eyes flickering between his brother and his food. He didn't need to see a chunk of potato get molar mashed.

"No," Dean knew from experience that whining and complaining didn't make things better, so he kept his bitching to himself and spared Sam the duty of being a therapist. Of course Sam usually pressed for more of an answer, but Dean still didn't like venting with words. If he wanted to blow off steam, he'd go home and rip up a Mustang.

"Sorry," Sam rolled his eyes, taking a bite of salad. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary, just another school status report for the Winchesters. Shockingly, though, Sam was the one having a good first day while Dean wallowed in his own pool of ire and misfortune.

Normally Sam was the grump.

"So," Dean turned his head to look at his brother, pushing aside his negativity and putting on a simper, "Did you make any _friends_?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugged, mixing around his corn. He didn't know if Andy counted or not, especially since he blew Sam off to eat in his van without sending Sam an invite. Plus he didn't know whether Dean would blow up at him for befriending a stoner, or yell at him for not getting him invited.

"No one needs an ass kicking, do they?" Dean's simper turned to a relaxed smirk, tone mocking and playful with his turmoil shoved temporarily in the closet.

"I'm not a seven," He gave his brother what he called the 'signature Sam Winchester bitchface'.

"Don't be a bitch about it," With a roll of the eyes, Dean took another slurp of milk.

"Jerk," Sam muttered, spearing some tomatoes and lettuce leaves.

Dean chuckled, happy for some brotherly banter after sitting quietly for a couple of hours. Bickering kept him sane. He guzzled down the last of his milk.

"So what about you?" Sam asked, "Did you get a schoolgirl yet?"

"Nah, not yet," Dean slammed down the empty carton, oblivious to the smile curling on his lips. He zoned out, mind connecting the question back to the eyes. Not exactly the schoolgirl he pictured in his dreams, but they were just as appealing. For some strange and stupid reason Dean couldn't begin to explain. Though there really didn't need to be an explanation, he didn't even think to question if there was or why there wasn't one.

Sam, still living in reality, raised a brow as his brother's smile widened, eyes curiously dazed. Dean never made faces like that, faces like a sixth grader who just discovered how infatuating women were. It wasn't horny (not completely anyway), either, adding to the weirdness. Obviously someone crossed his mind, someone unlike anything Dean ever saw.

_It's like he saw an angel or something..._

"Dean."

Sam's voice jogged Dean out of the trance, the other shaking his head and looking over at Sam, clueless, "Huh?"

"You look like a lovestruck twelve-year-old," Sam laughed at the idea. Dean falling head over heels for someone like the movies, _that_ was funny.

"What?" Dean furrowed his brow. Embarrassment quivered in the back of his mind, coupled with the much more forceful confusion. How could he look like that when he was just thinking about _those_? That took the cake for stupidity of the day.

"You know you can tell me if you meet a girl," The more troubled Dean looked, the happier Sam did. He scooped up some corn and shovelled it in his mouth, a grin plastered on his face.

"I didn't meet anyone!" Dean snarls, tearing off another chunk of burger and grinding it to bits. This wasn't funny, this was just annoying. No, more than annoying. More than irritating. More like provoking unheard of levels of frustration. And the more Sam chuckled the higher his vexation grew, "Shut up!"

"Okay," Sam couldn't wipe the smirk off his face. He looked down at his food before adding, "How about a guy?"

"_SAM_!"

"God, I was just teasing."

"Yeah well..._shut up_." Dean never did master the art of comebacks.

Sam let out one more laugh, then continued eating. Dean did the same; conversations paused so the brothers could finish their food. Their presence was enough, not need for constant verbal exchange. The chatters of the room made for a nice soundtrack to their meal. It wasn't until Dean was knocking off his last few tater tots and Sam picked at a few remaining lettuce leaves when they spoke again.

"So what class you got next?" Dean asked, trying to balance a tot on his finger as though it was some kind of Olympic sport.

"Theology," Sam responded. He memorised most of his class line up when he had to check for his 'PIN number' to buy food earlier, "Then computers," Sam liked computers. He was probably the only one in the family who could operate technology with some level of finesse. "What about you?"

"Uh..." Dean dug in his pocket, whipping out the schedule that went through a hundred years of Hell in only a few short hours. He flattened it out on the side of the table like he would with a bill for the vending machine, and then checked his remaining classes, "Apparently I have next period off and then have Psychology," Dean smiled to himself, "Free period."

"Cool, ninety minutes of time to yourself," Sam muttered, "Wait since when do you take Psychology?"

"Blow off class," Dean reminded him. At most other schools they attended Psychology was rumoured to be the most respected of all blow off courses. Whether that was true at Holy Innocents or not, well, Dean could wait an hour and a half to find out.

"Right..." Considering the topsy-turvy workings of this school, Sam doubted it would be as simple as Dean thought. For Dean's sake he wanted it to be a less strenuous class; he looked battered from the morning.

Dean leaned back in his chair, looking over at the clock.

"Say when does lunch end?"

_BRING! BRING!_

"Now, apparently," Sam looked around, watching everyone else get up, chairs screeching across the floor and thunderous footsteps echoing. Then his eyes returned to Dean, "So what are you going to do?"

"Sleep," Dean shrugged, shutting his eyes, "Screw consciousness,"

"Good luck with that," Sam muttered, getting up and collecting his things, "Just remember to wake up for Psychology."

Dean grunted, waving a hand dismissively.

Sam let out a sigh, stacked Dean's mostly empty lunch tray under his, and left with their trash. He disposed of the trays before venturing off to the final half of his day.

* * *

><p>AN: That took me way way way too long. And this isn't exactly how I wanted it to turn out. But I think if I dwell on this anymore I'm gonna flip a table over. Ugh. Thanks for reading! Leave a review, that'd be great! Promise it gets FAR more interesting next time around. Thanks!


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